The Dallas daily herald. [volume] (Dallas, Tex.) 1873-1887, 1887-02-15

Dul We may us Wcll uChHOWlcuSo u
>- &c that he was not so heroic nor sc
wise. nor so infallible an authority a.
his wife supposed.
She had taken the outline of the real
John, touched it up with the glowing
colors of her Imagination aud out of il
had made an ideal John, which, while
it bore strong resemblance to the real,
was nevertheless largely Il work of art.
But, after subtracting these additions
for the real. there was still left very
excellent fellow, with good talents,
which he was using with rather bril-
liant effectiveness in journalism and
various kinds of literary work; who
was adorningly fond of his wife, and
had not yet recovered from his surprise
ut his excessive good fortune in possess
ing that much-coveted treasure-for
whom he had much contended, with
many others, in those anxious days of
courtship. And nowhere she was at
home, waiting for him, while he was
urging his brain to the top of its speed,
and driving his quill in eager haste,
thinking only of what it would bring
for him to lay at her feet
Mildred was right in thinking he felt
anxious at times, for things did not al
ways turn ont as he hoped. And he
oftcntimes felt dsheartened when he
thought that with the fullest measure
OF success which he could achieve in
his profession could never Weld what
so peerless wife as Mildred deserved.
For. of course, he had with his imagi-
nation retouchcd the real Mildred too.
The new purpose of authorship
Mildred's life. She felt important
indeed that she was much more impor-
tant than people were aware. That
she was carrying n very large secret
that if John only knew
Then she pictured to herself his read
in her story, possibly reviewing it. AZ
ter he has written all kinds of nice
things about it | will tell him that ]
am the author; or--and her heart
| turned cold and sick what # he should
say it was trashp For, OF course, like
other good critics, John was seldom
pleased. If things were all excellent,
what would be the need of critics? So
he had cultivated the art OF discovering
flaws in what seemed to ordinary read
ers pure gems. He had developed
rather n talent for pllorying people in
n single terse phrase, and was much
valued for his skill in beating down
with the editorial club tender young
aspirants who were trying to make
themselves heard. This sounds brutal
But he was only professionally brutal.
Ia bic ,,orcnn,1 nhnro otoristinc mana
could be more tender or sympathetic.
Mildred knew of this caustic vein and
believed it, too-as she did also of
Johns attributes and gfts-"but," she
thought, if he should say any of those
dreadful things about me; what should
dop | should never--never-tell him?
And so during the entire day she
thought and planned. Few intricacies
of plot suggesting themselves vivid
and interesting scenes coming before
her stimulated Imagination.
Her mother urged her remaining and
sending for her husband TO dine with
them. Her secret desire was to return,
but she looked ut her mothers wistful
face and had not the heart to refuse
She would stay and send for John.
That gentleman arrived at home ut
the usual hour As he put his latch
key into the door he smiled, thinking
of the quick ear which was listening for
it, and of the pretty apparition which
would meet him in the hall. by
Jove," he thought, "what n lucky fel-
low | amp
But the expected figure did not meet
him. He was conscious of n little chill
of disappointment, and still more as he
wandered through the rooms and found
all silent and deserted.
He rang for the maid.
Where is your mistressP
"She is out sir. There's note, sir
somewhere" and she looked anxious
ly about. "Oh. it is on the desk" said
she with returning memory starting to
60 for it.
mo matter; will get it, and John
turned his impatient steps toward his
wife's room.
There was no note on the desk, and
quite naturally he opened the lid. His
eyes were riyeted upon the words be-
fore him.
DEAR FRANK: return herewith the
letters which have no longer any
right to keep. l need not tell you what
il costs me-"
He felt rs If his blood were turned
into ice.
II have reflected much upon what
you said Yesterday"
Yesterday felt as il he were
going mad. "Yesterday!"-and he had
so trusted her! The room had grown
black and great sledge hammer was
beating his brain, but he read on